


Nor Shall My Sword Sleep In My Hand

by caesia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1435825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesia/pseuds/caesia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the war for Westeros continues, Sansa realizes she must play her own game if she wants to return home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nor Shall My Sword Sleep In My Hand

Sansa hurried up the stone steps, shivering as she walked past an archer’s slit in the tower wall. Sweetrobin had fussed longer than usual before bed, and Lord Baelish would be reading correspondence in his study. The longer she kept him waiting, the longer he would sip his mulled wine. Her father was always well-controlled around his guests, charming and tactful and witty, but in the evenings he left the stopper off the wine jug, and the wine made him bold. 

She knocked twice on the door before entering. A vigorous fire danced in the hearth, and she unpinned her heavy cloak gratefully.

“Finally my Alayne arrives. Were you sneaking around the kitchen for another sweet?”

“No, Father,” she replied. “Lord Robert’s blankets were itching him, and he insisted we find new ones before he would hear his story.”

“Always so dutiful, my daughter, even on her nameday,” he said, gesturing for her to perch on the arm of his chair. He pulled her close by her waist and rested a hand on her thigh, to keep her from falling off. “Did you enjoy the lemoncakes I ordered made for you?”

He’d already asked her once before, when the cook had swept out bearing a platter of the pale yellow delicacies. Then he’d kissed her hand and declared that she grew lovelier every year. Still, she gave her answer again, with a polite smile. “They were a most unexpected surprise. I cannot thank you enough.”

He laughed, showing teeth tinged dark from wine. “Any father would take joy in celebrating such a beautiful daughter. Beautiful, and sweet as lemoncakes.” 

Then he kissed her. Sansa was already prepared, careful to keep her lips closed tight as his mouth moved over hers. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, fighting to recall the bright flavor of lemons even as she breathed in bitter fumes of wine. _Lemoncakes are tart as well as sweet._

At last, he let her go with a sigh, and turned his attention to their evening business. On his desk lay three volumes bound in sober black leather, the top book open to a page divided into columns. Innocuous though they appeared, Littlefinger allowed no one to read them but himself, except on the nights when he showed her a page. More often, he gave her ink and paper and examined the rows of numbers himself, dictating notes as he read. She tried her best to glean details of his plans, but much of the trade that concerned him evaded explanation. It made sense to stockpile grain and dried fish for the winter, but why order such copious quantities of silver samite and onyx beads, only to keep them stored in Gulltown? When she’d dared to question him, he’d only smiled and gazed toward the fire. “For a gift, perhaps.”

When the two candles on his desk began to gutter out, he drew a velvet ribbon edged in gold thread across the page and set the book aside, turning to the second volume. Her father expected Sansa to take her leave when he looked over his personal accounts, but tonight she lingered after pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth. Casting a demure glance over the pages of the ledger, she began her question hesitantly. “My lord father, we have not spoken of the feasting to come for Lord Robert’s nameday celebrations. Will I…do you think, will Harrold Hardyng come to visit?”

He smiled. “Are you nervous to meet your bridegroom, Alayne? Do not fear, sweetling: with your charm and grace, his gallant heart will be easily swayed. Still, I suppose a new gown might be in order. Nothing conspicuously fine, of course, but a pale rose would complement your eyes nicely.”

“I am not nervous about meeting him, father, only about whether he will come. Lady Myranda says…”

His voice turned cold. “Myranda Royce says altogether too much. Harry will be here for the birthday feasting; Lady Waynwood has assured me it will be so.”

“What if he wants to marry right away? I am not yet…free from my previous obligations.” Sansa asked, pulling her hands from his grasp and wringing them together.

“There are ways of putting him off, my sweet. I will teach you. It is more important that you marry before Lord Robert dies, for then Harry will become an even more eligible match. But Lady Waynwood will be true to her word in the end; her interest rates guarantee it. Your future as Lady of the Eyrie is safe.”

_That is not the title that concerns me_. Sansa buried the thought, and kissed his cheek goodnight with a parting smile.

 

The covers on Sansa’s high feather bed had been turned back and her dressing gown laid out in front of the fire, but her shoulders slumped at the empty surface of her desk. Randa sent her notes on nights that she would welcome a bedmate, and Sansa had hoped tonight might be such an occasion. Not because of the cold, though she could hear the wind howling against the shutters; her chambers were plenty warm for sleeping, with a wide fireplace and downy pillows piled on the bed. But Randa knew more gossip about the happenings outside the Gates of the Moon than anyone else, and she was more than willing to share it all. Her chatter was often salacious, but it was almost always true, and it served as a welcome distraction from the cares Sansa brought to bed each night.

Still, she’d rather share a bed with her cares than with Harry the Heir. Sansa couldn’t help but shiver every time Randa or Littlefinger mentioned his name. The plan to marry her off belonged to Littlefinger, not Petyr, a scheme designed to confound his opponents and leverage her secret identity. Since her arrival at the castle, she’d had only a few glimpses of the caring protector who’d saved her from King’s Landing. _But it was Ser Dontos who saved me, truly, not Lord Baelish. And he was paid for his efforts with quarrels through his chest._

Marrying Harry would never bring her home to Winterfell. If he inherited the Vale, he might be convinced to send men to the North, and perhaps even to win it back in her name. But _he_ would control it, then, and her place would be by his side in the Eyrie, far from the godswood and her father’s grave and the blue roses of home. This assumed, of course, that Harry would be interested in marriage in the first place. Littlefinger had thought it a crude move on Yohn Royce’s part that Harry had failed to attend the feast held to celebrate the final harvest before winter came to the Vale, but Sansa thought Randa had the right of it: “Winter means slow travel, and and end to tourneys and wenching from town to town, and all the other things knights do best. No wonder the boy would rather find a willing maid to give him another bastard than come to a stuffy feast for a boy who can barely sit up.” 

If it weren’t for Sweetrobin’s failing health, Sansa might have been content to wait for a chance at rescue, the way she had in King’s Landing. His energy, however, had never recovered from the descent from the Eyrie. After the feast given by Lord Nestor, she’d thought him dead already, for no one could rouse him from sleep until nightfall the following day. She’d stayed by his side, stroking his long, fine hair and praying that her instructions to Maester Coleman were not the cause of his weak, shallow breaths. 

It had been worse at the harvest feast. Littlefinger had insisted that Lord Robert be dosed again with sweetmilk, and Coleman had reluctantly acquiesced. As a result, her cousin had gone droopy-eyed at the second course, lolling from side to side in his elaborate seat while complaining of fatigue in a high, childish whine. The nobles of the Vale had looked on in obvious concern, so Sansa had escorted the boy to his rooms while Petyr smoothed matters over.

Excuses would not stay the lords if Sweetrobin died, and Sansa could not imagine the welfare of Alayne Stone would count for much if Harry became lord before they could marry. Despite Petyr’s assurances, her future depended on herself alone.

 

“Wake up! Alayne, you must wake up! There’s been the most dreadful news.”

To Myranda Royce, dreadful meant supper with only three courses, or catching her older brother press a serving girl against a dark corner after too much ale. Sansa opened her eyes expecting a juicy story, but she found her friend pale and shivering against the cold. “Were you in such a hurry to tell me that you forgot your cloak?” she asked, opening her coverlet so that the older girl could slip into her bed. 

“Never mind my cloak. My father received a raven late last night, and there were so many footsteps up and down the corridor that I awoke.”

Myranda’s shivering hadn’t lessened, so Sansa folded their hands together to warm her while pressing for more information. “What was the message?”

“ _Dragons_. It’s the Targaryens, come to take back the Seven Kingdoms, just as Aegon the Conquerer did. They say and cliffs of Dragonstone already billow with black smoke.”

_Dragons._ The word rang in Sansa’s ears like the discordant clang of a broken bell. But it couldn’t be true.

“The Golden Company has held the Stormlands for months, and Lord Baelish says they’re not led by a Targaryen at all, but a pretender. And he has no dragons,” she pointed out.

Randa was already shaking her head. “No, this is a different Targaryen. Not a pretender, but Rhaegar’s sister, the one who was sent in exile across the narrow sea. She’s got a thousand ships, ten for every one of her nephew’s, and she’s returned with real dragons.”

“I must go see my father. He’ll know what to do.” She pushed her bedding back and slid her feet into the boots beside her bed. Then she noticed the hearth, gone cold but for a single glowing ember. “Where are the servants?” she asked, frowning.

A degree of Myranda’s accustomed glee at relating bad news returned to her voice.“The news is already flying around the castle. Your father has ordered all the gates shut and barred to keep everyone from fleeing. The maids are probably hiding in the kitchens, weeping in fear.”

“Then I must go see to Sweetrobin. If he hears the news of dragons, he’ll be terrified.” Having changed her mind, Sansa pulled a wool gown dyed the same color as her hair from her trunk. “You’ll tell me if you hear any more news?”

Randa promised she would, burrowing deeper into Sansa’s bed, and she set off to the lordling’s rooms, hoping he was still asleep. 

At the end of the hall leading from her chamber, Sansa heard shouting and wailing drifting up from the courtyard of the castle below. The sounds stayed with her as she climbed the stairs. Petyr’s hedge knights would help Lord Nestor’s men keep the peace, if they honored the money he’d paid them. Yet it was certain that few would stay and fight if dragons approached the Gates of the Moon. She pushed the thought from her mind and slipped into Robert’s chambers.

His fire had burned out, too, but her wishes had been answered. A thumb tucked inside his cheek, Robert sighed against his pillows, oblivious to the new dangers that faced them. _I hope he is dreaming of the Winged Falcon_ , Sansa thought fiercely. He was only a boy, after all, hardly younger than her brother Bran would have been. 

When he woke, her presence confused him. “Did I fall asleep during your story, Alayne? I’m cold.” She’d kindled a fire the best she could with fingers stiff from the icy air outside, but it flickered dimly.

“It’s morning, Sweetrobin. But since it was my nameday yesterday, I asked my lord father if I could spend extra time with you today. You can even stay all wrapped up in your bedclothes, and I can tell you stories.”

“I don’t _want_ to stay in bed. I want to eat lemoncakes in the library next to the giant fireplace, where no one’s allowed to talk unless _I_ tell them they can.”

Sansa pressed her lips together in frustration. Her cousin was inclined to be contrary, so it was only natural that the one morning she needed him to stay in his rooms, he was eager to be gone. 

“Lemoncakes for breakfast won’t help you grow big and strong. Let me help you get dressed, and if you’re very well behaved, we can eat at the big table in the kitchens. Would you like that?”

“I’m already big and strong,” he argued, yawning. 

“Of course you are, Sweetrobin. But you’re not finished growing yet. Someday you’ll be even taller than me!”

Sweetrobin nodded, but he was already slumping back into his pillows. “When I wake up again, I want a whole plate of lemoncakes _and_ sweetbuns with sticky icing. And you can carry me to the kitchen.”

As his eyes drifted shut, Sansa smoothed his coverlet. Once, she might have said a prayer to the mother, to watch over the sickly boy, but she no longer prayed. _Perhaps if there was a godswood…_ But Alayne would have no reason to honor the Old Gods.

While her cousin slept, Sansa tried to remember all she had heard about the dragon kings. None of her memories were comforting. The mad king, Aerys, had killed her grandfather and her uncle, who was to inherit, and her father had made war on the Targaryens alongside Lord Robert and Lord Hoster. Starks and Lannisters, Tullys and Arryns- they’d all supported Lord Robert in the end. What would the dragon queen do with the families of those who had betrayed her father?

_We are still but children,_ she thought, frowning at Sweetrobin’s labored breathing. _We are not even grown._

 

By the time Myranda arrived with a servant, Sansa had fed nearly the whole woodbox to the fire in an effort to keep Lord Robert warm and drowsy. The young girl bustled to assemble his breakfast plate, fresh bread with butter and jam in shallow porcelain dishes, but the lordling didn’t stir. 

“Stay with Lord Robert until he wakes, and make sure he eats,” Sansa instructed the maid. “I must speak to my lord father. Do not let anyone disturb him with rumors of any kind.”

In the hallway, Myranda told her what she knew. “The news came from Gulltown last night. More than a dozen captains swear they’ve seen foreign ships carrying soldiers, and they’re begging for protection. But the Vale has no true military fleet, only merchant vessels.”

“Did they see any dragons?”

“None but those embroidered on the ships’ banners.”

“Then they might still be wrong.” Sansa squared her shoulders. “I really must see my father, but I promise I will find you when I know more.”

“Be wary of the rabble of hedge knights your father has collected,” Myranda warned. “More than a third escaped in the night, and the ones who remain are in a fearsome temper.”

Men-at-arms milled about in the main yard. Sansa pulled the hood of her cloak close over her face and picked her way through the frozen mud, avoiding any knights who might recognize her. She’d almost reached the base of the tower where Petyr’s solar was located when she came across a band of men guarding the entrance. Reluctantly, she revealed her face. 

“Please, I must see my father,” she explained, but no one moved aside. A short man with a ruddy beard turned from a cluster of men throwing dice. Apparently Ser Shadrich hadn’t been one of the knights to escape.

“”Surely you’ll stand aside for her at least,” he called, moving to her side. “This is the Lord Protector’s daughter.”

Their captain, a tall man with long curling hair, raised his visor before crossing his hands over the pommel of his sword. “We take our orders from Lord Royce, not Lord Baelish. No one is to enter without permission.”

His sword belt bore a bronze clasp. _He means Lord Yohn Royce, not Lord Nestor_ , she realized. “I have an urgent message concerning Lord Robert,” Sansa fibbed. 

To her surprised, the knight they called the Mad Mouse grinned and mirrored the captain’s posture. “Lady Alayne is the lordling’s most devoted caretaker. Keep her from Lord Baelish and it will go ill for you, I promise.”

Reluctantly, the man waved his hand to clear a path for her. On an impulse, Sansa delayed. “Might Ser Shadrich accompany me, ser? There is so much unrest in the keep, and the men frighten me.” He grunted, and Ser Shadrich followed her past the Royce men and into the tower.

“I thank you for the opportunity to leave the yard, my lady. The men are already grown tiresome in their speculations.”

“I am no lady, Ser. Only a Stone,” Sansa demurred. “Do you think it’s true? About the dragons?”

The knight shrugged. “Who can say? The only thing raging through the kingdoms faster than war is gossip. They say the Imp killed his nephew the king with a glance from his evil black eye, that ghosts win battles in the Stormlands, and northmen haunt the Riverlands in the shape of wolves, seeking vengeance for their king. Why not dragons?”

They passed more guards on a landing partway up the steep tower stairs, but these men let her through without a fuss. Once they were out of earshot, she asked, “Do the stories not frighten you?”

“Frighten me?” Ser Shadrich tossed his head back, pushing a lock of orange hair off his forehead. “I’ve seen battle aplenty, and I’ll see more before this war is through. It seems to me I’m in a good place to be a soldier, and the poor fools who ran off at the rumor of lizards didn’t think it over.”

The knight was shrewd, or at least thought himself to be so. “What do you mean?”

“Seven kingdoms, and all but the one’s gone to war. The Riverlands and Westerlands should be renamed theWastelands, the North is in shambles after their wolf king got bumped off, and the Reach is probably being invaded by the Martells and this young dragon lord as we speak. The Vale may be the last to enter this war, but enter it shall. The men here are fat with the autumn harvest and eager to fight. ’Twas an easy choice to stay.”

“I’m sure my father will thank you generously for your service.”

He laughed. “ _Someone_ will, of that I’m sure.” He stopped courteously a few steps from the door, and smiled crookedly. “Perhaps it’ll be you.”

Ignoring the innuendo in his tone, Sansa curtseyed and let herself into the solar. Lord Baelish stood behind his desk, flanked on either side by a Royce, while Lady Waynwood sat by the fire, a stack of letters on her lap. Petyr looked up and smiled weakly. 

“Come, daughter, you remember Lord Yohn Royce. He arrived with news and a host of men not six hours after the bird that started this mess.”

The gruff knight frowned beneath his silver whiskers. “I told your lordship before, the gales off the Bay of Crabs have been fierce. It’s likely the birds flew off track. I myself made good time through the valley, as it’s not yet covered in snow.”

Sansa couldn’t keep herself from interrupting. “Have dragons truly returned to Westeros, father? Or is it only a story?”

Lord Nestor looked stern. “They say sailors are superstitious folk, and full of tall tales. But some of the men spreading these rumors are old and practical. I would not expect such exaggerations from them.”

Petyr twisted his mouth, replying, “I would not expect a man to have the gall to proclaim that Prince Aegon escaped the sack of King’s Landing as a babe, but this dragon pretender has done so. We must not put too much stock in stories until we have proof.”

“What shall we tell Lord Robert?” Sansa wondered aloud. “He’s still abed for now, but the whole castle is churning with rumors of dragonfire and destruction.”

“Word must not reach him,” Littlefinger agreed. “We’ll quarantine his rooms, and only those with my approval will enter and leave.”

“Lord Robert is to celebrate his ninth nameday in a few weeks,” Lord Yohn scoffed. “Why should he be kept ignorant? He must learn to make decisions for the whole Vale someday.”

“Lord Robert has suffered much since the tragic loss of his mother, my lord,” Sansa explained gingerly. “He is prone to fancies, and often disturbed by nightmares. I do not think word of dragons would help his condition.”

“His condition has done nothing but worsen. The entire Vale is alive with stories of his weakness. If war comes to the Vale at last, we will need a leader men can rally behind, not a boy who can’t sit up.”

Littlefinger’s eyes glittered as he curled his thin lips into a smile. “Surely you remember our agreement, Lord Yohn. A year has not yet passed.”

The Lord of Runestone shrugged, conceding the point. “Still, perhaps it would be best for everyone to begin preparing Ser Harold more thoroughly. Lady Anya and myself could tutor him here, allowing you to take up your rightful place at Harrenhal.”

“For the present, my duties as Lord Protector of the Vale take priority over Harrenhal, my lord. Now, if you and Lord Nestor would be so kind, I must ask your leave to speak to my daughter in private.”

Lord Yohn nodded stiffly, Lord Nestor easily, and the two men left. Lady Anya stood, but made no move to exit. 

“You cannot keep the Vale from war forever, Lord Baelish. You are no soldier, and unless you plan on giving command to Lord Corbray when the time comes, you would do well to listen to the Bronze Yohn.”

“Your advice is much appreciated, as always, Lady Waynwood,” he replied, bowing her out of the room.

Once they were alone, Littlefinger collapsed back into his chair, rubbing his temples. _He hasn’t slept_ , Sansa realized. His fatigue aged him considerably. “Can I fetch anything for you, Father? A tonic? Wine?”

“No, my dear,” he laughed ruefully, “We must keep our minds clear.”

She walked to stand beside his desk. “Tell me the truth. Is there really a Targaryen queen on Dragonstone? Has she brought dragons back to Westeros?”

“The truth,” he repeated with a grim smile. “We all seek the truth, but the ravens bring nothing but rumors. A thousand ships, filled with Dothraki screamers and shadowbinders from Asshai? This I cannot believe. The horselovers fear the sea more than death itself. I fear the talk of dragons must be real, though. The Targaryen queen already conquered the great slaving cities, Astapor and Yunkai and Meereen, before setting out for Westeros, and all of Essos buzzes with news of her beasts. Even if they are half the size of Aegon’s creatures, they will inspire terror. But is she allied with the pretender in the Stormlands, or will she punish him for his insolence? Who are her advisors, and who will she seek out for vengeance when she arrives?” Coming back from his reverie at last, he blinked and noticed her fear. Taking her trembling hands in his, he reassured her. “Do not be afraid, Alayne. Lord Royce would fight Queen Daenerys, but I would make her allegiance. I will not let harm come to you.”

“But how do you know she won’t punish you? You served King Robert, after all, and my father fought beside him in the rebellion…”

“ _I_ am your father, Alayne, and I fought no battles for that drunkard and his honorable friends,” he reminded her, his voice harsh with unaccustomed bile.

“Of course, father, I did not mean… I am sorry.”

He sighed, stroking the backs of her hands. “Oh, sweetling. You must forgive me my dark mood. Perhaps you are right, and I should send for a tonic from Coleman. Go look after Lord Robert, keep him calm and unaware.” He pulled away, slipping back into a dreamy voice. “I will keep you safe.”

As she turned to leave, she fought against the tears that threatened to slip from her eyes. _You will keep Alayne safe, as long as she is your daughter. But I am Sansa Stark. I cannot pretend forever._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This fic is shaping up to be as long and winding as the kingsroad itself, and I can't wait to write more. Characters and pairings will be added as they appear. For progress updates, gifs from season four of GoT, and pictures of Sophie Turner, follow me on [tumblr](http://www.caesiamusa.tumblr.com). Feedback is the most wonderful thing, and I'd love to hear what you think of the story as it develops!


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